


i'm loving angels instead

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Guardian Angels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which David Cook meets his guardian angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm loving angels instead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt over on the cookleta kink meme:
> 
> "it's probably been done before, i'm not sure, but i was reading some other amazing dramatic cookleta semi-au fics where archie died at some point and/or didn't get to try out for idol and now i'd really like to see cookleta with ghostly guardian angel!archie. archie dies from vocal chord related illness/surgery just before trying out for idol, 'wakes up' as a now guardian angel, and is either assigned and/or drawn to watch over cook who is going through the idol motions. along the way cook somehow starts sensing/seeing archie, they start communicating and learning about each other, and things get interesting. bonuses: somehow sex happens, either the ghostly kind or the semi-solid body kind or both"
> 
> Consider this me deanoning, haha.

At first he thinks he’s hallucinating, too many late nights at the bar and too many beers making him see things that aren’t there. That’s the only explanation he can come up with to explain why there’s a boy floating in the middle of the bar, staring at him with curious hazel eyes.  
  
Dave rubs his eyes, hard, and blinks to clear the spots from his vision. The boy is still there, watching him. The scuffed toes of his converse hover at least a foot off the ground.  
  
Dave elbows his brother, gesturing to the middle of the crowded bar. “Drew, do you see that?”  
  
“See _what_?” Drew shoves him back, scanning the bar and shooting Dave his patented ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’ look. “Were you even listening to me just now, Dave? I was trying to ask you something.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dave mutters, distracted, his eyes never leaving the boy, who smiles a little bashfully and waves. Dave blinks and waves back. In his periphery, he catches Drew making a face and moving the pitcher of beer out of his reach.  
  
“Omaha, man. _American Idol_ auditions? I asked you to come with me.”  
  
Dave finally tears his gaze away from the boy, staring instead at his brother. “You want to try out for _American Idol_?” he asks. It’s clear by the tone of his voice what he thinks of _that_ little revelation.  
  
Drew rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dave,” he returns patiently. It’s clear by _his_ tone that he thinks his big brother is a simpleton.  
  
Dave ignores that. For now. “And you need me there to… what? Hold your hand?”  
  
Drew punches his shoulder. “For moral support, jackass, though maybe I’ve changed my mind now.”  
  
Dave doesn’t buy that for shit. He can see beneath the annoyance and nonchalance on his brother’s face to the sincerity beneath, so he doesn’t even think about teasing him (much as he’d like to).  
  
His brain isn’t exactly focused on the matter at hand, anyway. The boy has moved closer in the course of Dave’s inattention, and Dave’s gaze swings back to him as if drawn by a magnet.  
  
Drew sighs. “Just think about it, okay? It’s next week, so I need to know sooner rather than later.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dave mutters, watching as the boy stumbles (hovers?) hastily away from a rowdy couple out on the dance floor. “I’ll think about it.”

 

//

  
He’s lounging on his couch later that night with his guitar cradled in his lap, Dublin asleep on the floor at his feet, when a soft, breathy voice tells him, “You should go.”  
  
“What the _fuck_ – “ Dave nearly falls off the couch as he jerks his head up, gazing around what should be his empty apartment. His hand tightens on the strings of his guitar as he sees nothing and no one, a sour screech echoing in the silence as his nails rake over the fret board. “Who’s there?”  
  
He’s almost not even surprised when the boy from the bar materializes seemingly out of nowhere, inches away from the couch and thus inches away from _Dave_ , who almost vaults over the back of the sofa before he catches himself, clutching his guitar to his chest like that will protect him from… well, not harm. The boy doesn’t exactly look threatening, but there is the whole ‘appearing out of nowhere’ thing to consider, so.  
  
He’s currently got his hands clasped behind his back, watching Dave much like he’d been doing in the bar, something between curiosity and amusement on his face.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, his voice soft and a little raspy. “I didn’t mean to, um, startle you?”  
  
Dave squints. The boy looks real enough at the moment, dressed in a checkered shirt and jeans. Looks young, too, no older than seventeen, maybe, or eighteen, his face smooth and boyish, eyes bright. Doesn’t look like a drunken hallucination at any rate, not that Dave would be able to tell the difference. He’s pretty sure the buzz he’d picked up from the few beers he’d consumed at the bar should have worn off by now.  
  
“Who are you?” he asks suspiciously. _What_ are you, he doesn’t say. For some reason, he feels like that would be rude. Maybe he _is_ still drunk.  
  
“Oh, um, I’m David? David Archuleta.” The boy makes an aborted move to raise his hand, seems to think better of it, and drops it back to his side. “Nice to meet you?”  
  
“You sure about that?” Dave asks, amused despite himself. The kid keeps phrasing things like a question like he can’t figure out what he wants to say. Dave can relate, at the moment. “Uh. How did you… ?” He waves his hand, encompassing the entire apartment.  
  
The boy – David? – seems to understand what he’s asking, which is good, because Dave’s not exactly operating with a full deck of cards here.  
  
“It’s… it’s a long story,” David says, shrugging his shoulders and looking a little lost for words.  
  
Dave doesn’t know if it’s the beer or the earnest slant of the boy’s mouth that makes him do it, but he leans back against the couch, lowering his guitar to his lap, and says, “I’ve got all night.”

 

//

  
Turns out, David isn’t exactly human.  
  
He used to be, until recently.  
  
“I was in the hospital,” he explained, staring at his shoes. His mouth twists in sadness, and something in Dave’s chest aches to see it. “For a long time. Um, my throat – it started with vocal paralysis when I was younger, and then it just – it got worse.” He rubs at his throat, an absentminded touch. Dave has a feeling it’s a gesture born of habit, with the way David’s eyes go dark and a little hazy, like he’s lost in recollection.  
  
“Why are you here, though?” Dave asks, hoping the question will distract David from his melancholy. He doesn’t know why, but he’d rather not see that lost, desolate look on the boy’s face any longer than he can help it.  
  
He’s surprised when a splash of red suffuses David’s face. “I, um. I had a choice,” David tells him, carefully avoiding Dave’s gaze. “It’s my job now to look after a charge. To help them. I was given a choice and, well… “ David glances up at him from beneath dark lashes, and for a moment Dave’s completely immersed in those hazel eyes, struck dumb by that soft, bashful gaze. “I chose you.”  
  
Dave doesn’t ask why, doesn’t ask what exactly David’s supposed to help him _with_. He can’t really say _anything_ after that little confession, other than –  
  
“Well, damn.”

 

//

  
They settle into a routine, of sorts. It’s strange as fuck at first. Dave wakes up the morning after his and David’s conversation expecting the whole thing to have been some weird dream, but when he stumbles into his living room David’s there, sitting on the floor and playing with Dublin.  
  
It takes a few days for Dave to stop jumping every time he turns and sees the boy sitting on his couch or walking beside him down the street. It doesn’t take near as long for David to convince him to go with Drew to Omaha.  
  
“Why exactly is this so important to you?” Dave asks him, after David’s gentle but continual insistence to tag along to the auditions. “I’m not even trying out. I’ll just be standing around waiting for Drew.”  
  
David shakes his head. “I just – I have a feeling about this? Like you were meant to be there.” He looks a little embarrassed as he continues, his fingers plucking absentmindedly at the hem of his shirt as he tells Dave, “And, okay, this is kind of selfish of me, but I – I kind of want to see it? The auditions, I mean. I was going to go to the one in San Diego, if I felt well enough, but then – “ He trails off, voice growing faint, and Dave feels his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. _Shit_.  
  
He agrees pretty quickly after that.

 

//

  
He expects to cheer Drew on. He expects to explore the venue and wade through the crowds. He expects to do all of these things just so that David will be happy, which is a strange urge that’s shown no signs of letting Dave go any time soon, a strange urge that he’d rather not think about too closely, considering the very special set of circumstances that he’s suddenly found himself in with David, who is sweet and funny and endlessly kind, not to mention endearing and ridiculously _attractive_ –  
  
The point is, Dave expects a lot of things when he follows Drew to the _American Idol_ auditions.  
  
What he doesn’t expect is to _get in_.  
  
When the interviewer asks him if he’d like to try out last minute, Dave intends to say no. This was Drew’s whim, not his. But then David waves him on, his eyes all bright and excited like he’s the one that’s just been asked to audition, and Dave – well, he can’t say no.  
  
Afterwards he doesn’t know how to react. Drew is happy for him, laughs as he says, “See? Glad you came with me now, big bro?” and David looks fucking _ecstatic_. Dave looks down at the golden ticket in his hands with a thousand different emotions rushing through him, confusion and uncertainty and disbelief chief among them, because okay, he’s tried the music thing, he’s tried and he’s _failed_ , so there’s no reason why he should suddenly be looking at a literal ticket to his dreams, bright and golden and sitting in his fucking hands like the answer to all of his problems.  
  
“I’ve heard you sing,” David tells him later that night. He looks happy, almost serene. It’s a good look on him. “You deserve this, Cook. You’re going to go so far, I know it.”  
  
Dave doesn’t know what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the pride on David’s face. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been ages since Dave had anyone tell him that he _deserved_ a chance, that he could _make it_ , that his music was worth listening to. Either way, it’s a stupid, reckless move, and Dave’s not even convinced it’ll _work_ , but he throws caution to the wind and lowers his head anyway, touching his lips to David’s.  
  
David’s still talking, so his mouth is half-open. Dave’s lips catch on his, soft and plump. They’re suspended in time for a moment, Dave marveling at the sensation of David’s lips beneath his; he can _feel_ him, soft and warm and _real_. He had thought this would be impossible. Even after watching David interact with the objects around his apartment and with Dublin, he’d never thought that David could touch _him_ , and yet here they are. Dave doesn’t know how it all works, doesn’t _care_ , not when David draws in a quick, shuddering breath and kisses him _back_.  
  
It's gentle, chaste, just a soft brush of lips against his, but Dave’s chest expands anyway, his heart beating in double time as David’s mouth moves tenderly against his.  
  
David’s smiling as they pull away. He laughs, soft and bright. “I don’t think this is what they had in mind when they sent me to you,” he says.  
  
Dave barks out a laugh of his own, feeling light, feeling so fucking _happy_ he could float off the goddamn ground, just as he’d seen David do that night in the bar. “It’s your job to help me, right?” he asks, grinning. “I think that’s open to interpretation.”  
  
David’s laughter rings out clear and bright, and Dave pulls him back in to get a taste of that joy.  
  


//

  
Dave paces the length of his room, over and over again, his chest fit to bursting as he goes over his songs for the thousandth time. He knows the lyrics by heart now, knows every stroke of the guitar, every step he’s meant to take on stage, and yet anxiety squeezes his heart in an icy grip.  
  
He’s so fucking _close_ , has lasted through this whole crazy competition over the most talented group of musicians he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting, has endured endless weeks of interviews and sleepless nights and _dancing_ , Christ. He’s tried so hard, has pushed himself night after night, week after week, past the breaking point and then some, all to get to this point, the finale of _American Idol_ on the horizon and the _Idol_ crown waiting at the finish line.  
  
“Cook,” he hears David coax gently from the windowsill, where he’s been sitting for the past hour and a half while Dave wore a path in the carpet. “You’re going to be _fine_. All of this worrying is only going to make things worse.”  
  
Dave runs a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers shift through the sweaty strands. Christ, he’s a mess. “I know, I know,” he says. David’s right, he’s only going to work himself into a frenzy over all of the what-ifs and should-haves. Still, he can’t make himself calm down, can’t release the tension buzzing beneath his skin no matter how often he paces.  
  
He senses David moving in his periphery, turns to make yet another stride across the carpet only to run headlong into the boy, who’s looking at him with the same sure, calming gaze that has buoyed Dave through so many nights exactly like this one.  
  
“Do you want to – ?” David asks him, gesturing over to the bed. He presses a hand against Dave’s chest, over his racing heart, and smiles up at him, the sweet curve of his lips sending a warm ache through Dave’s chest and groin.  
  
He lets David lead him over to the bed, lets himself be pushed gently onto the mattress. David’s moves are practiced, familiar. They’ve attained a level of comfort with each other that Dave never would have expected all those months ago when David had – quite literally – appeared out of nowhere and into his life. It’s certainly been a learning process; they’ve both had to learn how to navigate the obstacles such a relationship had inevitably thrown at them. It didn’t help that Dave was the only one who could even _see_ David; many times he’d had to dodge some rather uncomfortable questions from his family and friends about who he was seeing, why no one else had ever gotten to meet the new guy in his life that he couldn’t shut up about. Over the course of the competition Dave had had to deal with more than a few strange looks from his competitors, too, whenever he forgot himself and said something offhandedly to David around them, or begged off going out so that he could spend a few hours alone in his room with his boyfriend.  
  
Dave doesn’t care, though, doesn’t give a single shit about what people think, what they say. Not when he has _this_ , David so warm and close and _real_ – because he is, as real to Dave as the curve of a guitar beneath his hands, and just as precious – pressing soft kisses to the arch of Dave’s throat as he reaches for his zipper, slipping his hand into Dave’s jeans and gripping him tightly, thumb swiping over the head of Dave’s cock, already half-hard and curving against his stomach.  
  
“ _David_ ,” Dave breathes, his back bowing off the bed as David strokes him, his grip switching between light and hard, fisting Dave’s thickening cock between his long, slender fingers.  
  
“You’re going to be amazing, Cook,” David croons, his lips brushing against Cook’s ear as he works him fervently between his fingers. “You were meant for this, you were meant for _music_. You – “ David falters, though his grip does not; he jerks Dave fast and hard, spreading pre-come down the shaft as Dave shivers and writhes beneath him. “You were meant for _me_.”  
  
Dave groans at the possessive bite to David’s voice, the way that soft, breathy rasp he loves so much is colored with awe, like David can’t believe that they’ve made it to this point, like Dave is the greatest gift he’s ever received, like Dave’s dreams are his dreams, the ones he’ll never get to experience for himself, and _god_ , all Dave wants is to give them to him, to give David back his voice and his dreams and his _life_ , but all he has is _this_ , his heart and his love and the fervent hope that that will be _enough_.  
  
He releases with a guttural cry over David’s fingers, staining the bedsheets below, his orgasm rushing fast and hard through him, leaving him shaking in the aftermath. David is there, always, to see him through, scattering tender kisses over Dave’s face, his wet cheeks and gasping mouth, and Dave loves him, wholly and completely in that moment like nothing he’s ever felt before, and nothing he’ll ever feel again.

 

//

  
When he stands on that wide _Idol_ stage the next night, confetti raining down upon his head and the title of _American Idol_ under his belt, David is there to share the spotlight with him.  
  
That night, and every night to come.


End file.
